1864 in silence
by Persepone
Summary: A young soldier watches the sky, listens to the lark, and waits for the enemy to attack. History-based.


Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Or Dybbøl. Or the Danish kings. I certainly don't own Prussia. I wouldn't want to own Monrad.

1864. April, the 18th

He opened his eyes.

It was so quiet.

He could hear the wondering murmurs of his comrades spreading down along the low walls of the redoubt. Soldiers from across the land. Men in tattered blue uniforms, turning brown with earth and blood and the wear of 10 days in the field.

They had all crept close to the muddy walls during the night, when the cannonfire blasted the skies, and the glow of the fires set the battlefield aflame. That damned albino had been spitting iron and gall at him, at his fort, on HIS ground, for what seemed like an eternity of whisting projectiles. The metallic song reverberated through his bones, interrupting his nervous dreams.

And then nothing.

Everything was still.

The gangly man leaned against the earthen wall behind him, let out a breath he had been holding in for far too long, and tilted his head back, letting the sky above fill his eyes with shimmering blue. The breeze ruffled his dirty-blond hair. The larks swooped and sang and disappeared, their notes lingering in the Jutland air above the two armies.

It occured to him, not for the first time, that just maybe, he shouldn't have picked a fight with Prussia. The black eagle had proven far more tenacious that he had thought at first. In the end, all he could do was build redoubts in the fields around the old mill, and wait for battle. Of course, Monrad had insisted he stay in Copenhagen, behind the nice, defendable moats, far away from all that nasty fighting.

Fat, cowardly git.

It didn't really matter that he had a prizewinning scowl and the people had somehow seen fit to vote for him – priests had no place in battle.

Gorm had been the one to tell him that.

He smiled ruefully at the memory.

The kings back then had been impressive and strong, because you couldn't rule people with weakness. They had been warlike, because there were no official borders, and therefore no safety. They had been the shield of the people, because otherwise they would have had no people to rule. But on top of this, Gorm had been a force of nature. He had been the first.

Word of the king had spread across the country like wildfire. It had only seemed natural to join his hird. No one knew what the ruffle-haired youth was back then – they only knew that his axe was keen, his fury terrible, and his drinking-habits those of a proper viking. They never asked to know more than that.

They had been sitting in the meadhall. It was fall, and the smoke curled from the cooking-fires, twisting in the air like many-headed wyrms. The hall smelled like honey and wood. Herbs were drying under the rafters. Most of the hird was asleep, snoring softly down along the walls, lost in the dark.

A ways down the table, the two princes were playing hnefatafl. Knud, the oldest, tall for his 19 years, loomed over the board. Harald, the younger, looking at his brother with obvious admiration, while winning the complicated game with startling ease.

The boys were as different as night and day. Knud was powerfully built, broad in the shoulders, and with a temper to rival even the worst of storms. Harald was slight, silent, always watching everything. Knud would make a fine king, and with Harald beside him, a golden age awaited.

The nation, not much older than the beardless Harald, had called himself Starkulf, as a somewhat redundant brag. By the time he had been asked for his name, it was well known that he was strong and vicious, like a wolf.

Gorm turned away from his sons, fixing the nation with a unwavering gaze.

"Knud is a good lad. He will be king after me."

Starkulf nodded, wondering why this needed to be said.

"I'm sending him on a raid as soon as the frosts clear. It's time for him to prove his worth."

The king raised the horn to his lips, but didn't drink.

"I don't want you with him."

The king drank, and the nation nodded again. You don't doubt your king. It could prove a deadly mistake. He looked into his own horn at the amber liquid.

"Who will you be sending, lord?"

Gorm hummed in thought before answering.

"Snurre, Hjalte, Bjørn, Halgrim, Finn, Frode – pretty much everyone from last time"

"Except me."

"Except you," the king agreed blandly. He eyed the young man across the table. The dying flames danced in his dark eyes and threw his shadow behind him, like a huge cape of bear-pelt, making him look smaller, frail and old. "Don't you want to know why?"

Starkulf shrugged, feigning disinterest "It is not for me to question my king."

Gorm barked a loud laugh, "Ha! And don't you forget it!"

A nightingale began singing, softly and hauntingly, in the woods outside. Winter was creeping slowly in with the long shadows. An age was ending.

The king leaned back in his chair, a strange smile making his beard twitch.

"Don't forget to whom you owe allegiance. When I am gone, and the sons of my sons need a strong arm and a sharp axe to hold the foe at bay, do not forget. Do not interrupt your king! I know you! You fight like the heroes of old. You know the enemy before anyone else. You never fall. I know you will be here long after the world has forgotten us. You will endure, you will see time laid out before you and behind you, and the lines of dead kings and their houses of ghosts will echo in your memory."

The young nation eyed Gorm carefully. The strange smile was still there, hiding behind the greying beard. Starkulf lead forward, resting his elbows on the wooden table. A crooked smirk twisted his features as he met the eyes of his lord.

"I see you have no need for me on the ship, lord. And rightfully so, only real men should go."

Gorm's beard gave a slight twitch.

"But surely, such a long voyage will make the men feel lonely, especially without my legendary wit to keep them amused."

The king looked the nation in the eye, humouring the young man.

"Will you be sending the priests along, then?"

"Tir, no! Robe-wearing, chanting, braying, praying, soft-bellied cowards! Let them rot in their stone houses and eat their dead god!"

Gorm leant forward suddenly, pointing a finger at his warrior, emphasizing the point:

"Priests have no place in battle!"

He remembered how the princes had looked at them, nonplussed, startled by their roaring laughter. And then winter had come, the land had frozen, and spring had followed. Knud had gone off on his raid. He had cheered them all on from his place beside the king. His friends had waved at him as the wind bore the ship out to sea. Halgrim had made a rude gesture, demonstrating what awaited the girls. Snorre had shouted something unintelligible.

A few months later, queen Thyra hang dark drapings on the walls of the meadhall. Bjørn stood before the king, Frode behind him. Their clothes were in tatters, and their eyes were clouded with sorrow and shame. Only a handful had come back, and the nation had wept for the lost comrades, for the dead prince, and for his king's terrible, silent sorrow.

Gorm had grown old.

He had buried his beloved queen, and become a man of grey colours. Starkulf had stood unchanged behind his throne, watching his first king disappear into himself, chosing the past and the long dead faces over the present.

It had felt like the cold of a thousand winters running through his blood, when the old man finally breathed his last. He had screamed and screamed, howling his sorrow at the world. It had been unbearable. He had borne it.

Then Harald had risen, he had ruled, the kingdom had grown, and passed to his son, Svend, and the ages had rolled, inexorably, like the sea, sweeping everything away, leaving him standing alone on the shore.

He called himself Mathias now, and he was cold.

Droplets of dew rolled down the back of his neck, into the already damp blue cloth of his uniform. In spite of it all, he smiled to himself. He had shown that damned ex-priest. Monrad had shouted, cursed in rather un-religious manner, threatened him, HIM, with prison, but in the end, the minister had been unable to stop the nation.

He never realized that the nation wasn't his to stop.

Christian wanted the war, and Mathias was nothing if not loyal to his king – even when his king was perfectly happy hiding in his castle, safely tucked away alongside his wife, with armed guards at every door. The pale queen had pretended not to listen from the neighbouring room, as her king had ordered a young man to rise up against the threat of Prussia. In a hushed voice, of course. Can't let the politicians know about this small spark of independence.

It hadn't been a question of agreeing or not – you don't doubt your king.

And then that order had come from Monrad. That stupid, bloody order. No retreat. Hold the line. They were facing an enemy force maybe three times bigger then their own. Armed with modern rifles, no less. And supported by those infernal batteries, flinging sharp and deadly metal at the Danish posts.

This was suicide. Looking down the line of old and young faces, red with blood and pale with fear, Mathias saw his knowledge reflected in their eyes. Yet they would fight. Fight and die. For him. The least he could do was fight alongside them, even if he could do nothing else.

Music rang out, swelling and floating on the air, stretching across the battlefield, startling him out of his reverie. The warhungry shouts of the enemy rose with their charge, drowning everything else. He could hear their feet pounding the ground as their neared the redoubts. He stood, fired his rifle, reloaded, fired, reloaded, fired. The tide of prussians rolled towards the redoubts. It was hopeless, but he couldn't stop. His people rose on either side of him, rose and fell as the shots whizzed through the April air, conjuring red flowers on blue jackets.

Something hit his right arm. He didn't look down. Looking wouldn't help. More shots. He wished he had brought his axe. He felt like he was made of glass, and splintering.

A movement close by caught his attention. Red eyes locked with his as he swung the butt of his rifle. A white head of hair ducked, avoided the blow, pressed a cold nuzzle towards his chin. He looked down, and saw the cat-like triumphant smile plastered across the pale features, and briefly wondered if he had ever looked that happy during battle.

Then thunder struck, and all was dark.

End notes

Right, history.

This takes place mostly during the battle of Dybbøl, the decisive rush of which took place on the 18th of April. Prussia had declared war on Denmark for a number of reasons, most prominently because they wanted Slesvig, which was under Danish rule at the time, and Denmark had accepted the challenge, because we were kinda stupid like that (it's complicated – wiki will tell you more)

Some 37.000 Prussian troops clashed with approximately 11.000 Danish soldiers on a field in Jutland, and we lost. Big time.

It's a popular myth surrounding this battle, that just before the Prussian army charged, there was a moment of silence so profound, you could hear the larks singing in the sky above. And the Prussians actually did bring an orchestra O.o

Monrad was an ex-priest, and the equivalent to a prime minister at the time. He ordered that the line be held at Dybbøl, angrily shouting that a united people should stand united. He went mad later on, and was removed from office, claiming that the king had betrayed him.

The middle part of the story is set in the 900's, at the viking court of Gorm the Old. I'm writing him as the first king of Denmark, though this is an arguable point – there are a few contenders to the title of first king of Denmark, but I'm going with Gorm. Partly because he's the only one described by contemporary sources, partly because he ruled in a time of change. He was not fond of Christianity, but his son, Harald Bluetooth was. It's also true that his first son, Knud, was killed while away on a raid.

The game the two princes are playing, hnefatafl, is a bit like chess, and was played by the vikings (again, wiki os your friend).

Tir, or Tyr, was the aesir god of war. The vikings probably wouldn't have sworn by his name in this manner, but I thought it would be amusing.

The vikings of the hird are made up by me, and their names are taken from other viking legends.

I apologize for the long notes, as well as for any inaccuracies.

Thank you, dear reader, for reading.


End file.
